


Into the Heat of Things

by lategoodbye



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Angst, Non-Graphic Violence, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Theron and Jonas go undercover to bust a ring of slicers on the Imperial side of Nar Shaddaa not many things go according to plan – but when has that ever stopped them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because let's face it, One Night in the Dealer's Den is probably just the tip of the iceberg a.k.a. this was supposed to be a short pwp ficlet but then I was overwhelmed by The Plot™.
> 
> This fic is all done and I'll be posting the second chapter shortly. Feel free to follow me over at rathvelus@tumblr for more swtor goodness (among other things).

They have been waiting now for hours and the constant wailing of the cantina jukebox is quickly turning into a cacophony of background noise that can't be tuned out. Seated by a small table between the exit and the bar Theron Shan is nursing his fourth whiskey. He likes to think that the alcohol doesn't interfere with his senses but he knows better than that. His implants and his expertise as an SIS agent give him an edge but underneath his nondescript clothes he's sweating uncomfortably and he finds that – much like his vision – his focus keeps shifting and realigning itself.

Which is one of the reasons why this mission is a two-man job.

Theron is used to working alone. Sure, he's got contacts and informants, lots of favours to call in. There's mission preps and debriefs and a direct line to the Director. Sometimes he works alongside other assets. Co-leading a mission with another agent is unusual, and Theron can't help but wonder who out of the two of them is supposed to stay out of trouble this time.

All things considered he's doing pretty well for himself, he thinks. It's Jonas Balkar who's been flirting on and off with their Zeltron waitress, a Twi'lek guest who Theron suspects might be a honey trap, and a human by the bar who's currently working up the nerve to come over and introduce himself. 

“Do you ever stop?” Theron asks but out of the corner of his eye he's still scanning the thinning crowd for their marks, a local gang of slicers with supposed ties to the Empire and a hunger for illegally procured credits.

“It's called being undercover,” Jonas drawls. As he speaks he raises his glass to the man at the bar. “You're the intense one with the brooding good looks; I'm your charming, charismatic partner with an eye for detail and a really nice haircut.”

Theron rolls his eyes and it causes the room to spin. It's not even that nice of a haircut, he thinks, and he runs a hand through strands of his own unruly hair. Jonas nods his head toward where bits of his cybernetics reflect the dim glow of the yellowish lights above.

“You're also the one with the high-grade implants,” he adds. “Better I make a fool out of myself for the sake of keeping up appearances.”

This is Jonas Balkar in a nutshell, and mixing business with pleasure makes for one hell of a good sleight of hand. It's also why he's one of SIS's finest.

But Theron isn't entirely convinced.

“There are other ways of drawing attention. Just saying.”

He finds that a good brawl always helps. Not that he's in a mood for one – he rarely is – but it serves as a good distraction. Naturally, Jonas disagrees. 

“None of which are as enjoyable.” He empties what's left of his own whiskey and proceeds to catch the eye of the Zeltron. “Another drink?” he asks smiling.

“I'm good.” Theron leans back, takes in the empty tables, the lacklustre mood, even Jonas's human admirer by the bar is gone. He doesn't need a chrono to tell him it's getting late. “Night's winding down anyway. Looks like another no-show.”

And that ticks him off because this is their third day here on the Imp-friendly side of Nar Shaddaa and they're still waiting for their marks to take the bait. What better way to draw a group of greedy criminals out of hiding than by proposing a highly profitable, highly illegal business transaction on the dark side of the local holonet? They'd even made contact and set up a time and place. Since then, nothing; just vague promises and not much to show for it.

“I can't believe the Director is paying us for scoping out cantinas all night,” Jonas says, apparently amused by the irony of it all. They've come prepared, of course: what to wear, where to sit, what to order as not to draw attention to themselves. With Jonas watching one end of the cantina and Theron the other there's no way they'd miss their targets – even if they have no way of knowing what they look like. 

On the second night they even went so far as to slice into the cantina's vid feeds and holocomm frequencies. Still, nothing.

One more night like this, thinks Theron, and he'll be going mad. 

“Not really my choice of R&R,” he grumbles but Jonas is having none of his bad mood.

“R&R – you?”

It's a good-natured quip. Jonas is many things but mean-spirited isn't one of them.

Theron sighs. He knows he can't keep this up with Jonas all positive and optimistic.

“Hey, I've been known to relax once in a while,” he jokes dryly.

“Really, when was the last time you...”, but Jonas trails off and his smile takes on a deceptively fake quality – and Theron knows that the game is on. He resists the urge to turn around and follow Jonas's gaze. Instead he relies on his partner's body language to tell him about what's happening behind his back. 

Jonas reclines in his chair. He seems calm, casual, unassuming – almost bored. Theron concludes that whoever he's spotted won't interfere with their plans. There's something, however, that bothers him. Jonas is the one watching the bar and the doors leading deeper into the private rooms of the cantina: utility, offices, storage. Theron is watching the exit, and for the past hour customers have been leaving. In fact, the cantina is now almost deserted.

He has a bad feeling about this. 

“Jonas...”, he mutters under his breath but Jonas seems unfazed. He sets down his empty glass and makes a show of yawning with his arms stretched high above his head. Theron uses the distraction to flex muscles that have grown stiff from sitting in one place for too long. He wishes he wore his custom bracers and heavy boots instead of expensive civilian’s clothing that leave little in the way of protection. He can feel eyes on his back, hears muffled footsteps. Four, no five people coming their way. Theron turns around then and acts surprised. He's careful to appear clumsy, harmless, dragging his feet across the floor and almost overbalancing in his chair.

“Hey there,” he greets the newcomers and raises his glass in an awkward salute. Let them think he's in over his head and not paying attention in the slightest.

But he is, and it's becoming painfully clear to him that they're in some serious trouble. For one, there's only two slicers: a green-hued Rodian and a stocky human with an undercut and an impressive array of cybernetics peppered across one side of his face. There's a female Zabrak with lines of red and black zig-zagging across her skin. She's slung a rifle across her muscular back but Theron suspects she won't need it to snap him in half. Standing next to her is another Zabrak, this one smaller, heavily scarred, even more heavily armoured, with durasteel plating that looks grimy and dull. 

But it's the one in the back who catches Theron's eye. There's nothing about the man that stands out to him; neither his short brown hair nor his pleasantly unremarkable face. Even the blaster he carries by his side is a cheap knock-off of better, deadlier models. This one, Theron decides, they've got to watch out for this one. 

The leader of the small group, the human slicer, steps forward. There's an air of superiority to him. He obviously doesn't expect much in the way of opposition and feels untouchable among his armed peers.

“You must either be very stupid or very desperate not to catch a hint,” is the first thing he says. It's so clichéd that Theron is tempted to roll his eyes. To these people, though, he's not an SIS agent but a greedy armchair criminal. It's vital that they underestimate him so he tenses up, draws in his shoulders and ducks his head ever so slightly.

Jonas is obviously going for a bit more flair.

“What can I say? Me and my business associate here, we're very dedicated.”

“Nice place you got here,” Theron adds nervously but he wonders how long they can keep up the idle chatter. Someone – cantina staff by the frightened looks of her – keys in the code to the front door and the heavy durasteel shutters descend with an ominous whooshing sound. They're trapped now and Theron chides himself for not seeing it coming sooner. The choice of cantina, then leading them on for days – they've been thoroughly made.

“Come on, people, surely there's no need-”

“Drop the act! We know who you are, scum,” the slicer proclaims triumphantly.

Theron exchanges a meaningful look with Jonas, who sighs regretfully.

“You know what? I really liked this cantina. The Rishi daiquiris are to die for,” and as he watches Jonas' demeanour changes. He grows taller somehow, quite a bit more intimidating despite being surrounded and outnumbered. Theron sits up in his chair. One foot hooked around its curved leg, fingers curled around his empty glass he could disarm two of the thugs in the blink of an eye and be ready for more. 

Which is probably why the Zabrak now points her rifle directly at his face.

“Did you really think you could outsmart us? We caught you slicing into our private holo frequencies.”

Theron frowns. He should have known. The little they found has been far too clean. There's not been a trace even of the most harmless stuff. The slicer gang only let them see what has prolonged their nightly visits to the cantina, it seems. Who knows, maybe even the staff aren't as innocent as he'd first believed. 

“Your joint then?” Theron asks and nods towards the bar.

“Damn right it is, sleemo. This and the whole damn sector,” brags slicer #1 and the distraction gives Jonas a crucial moment to shift his weight into a more strategically offensive position.

“Seriously?” He laughs. “And here I thought we were dealing with fourth-rate tech-junkies.” A bad move that leads to the Rodian drawing his blaster. 

It's what Theron has been waiting for. He jumps up and kicks his chair forward where it collides with the taller of the two Zabrak. It won't incapacitate her, of course, but it interferes with the aim of her rifle and the bright green bolt goes wide over Theron's head. He ignores the scorched debris that's raining from the ceiling panels overhead and throws his bottom-heavy glass at the Rodian's right hand – the one that holds a blaster pistol. It's a light model and its owner isn't used to wielding it. It's a bit of a gamble, Theron knows, but the weight behind the throw is enough to disarm him. 

With a pained hiss the blaster clatters to the floor. Theron isn't close enough to kick it away so he draws his own blaster and whirls around – just in time for the Zabrak male to slam right into him. The force of impact drives the air out of Theron's lungs. His chin meets durasteel and he bites his tongue. Tears in his eyes and the sudden feeling of vertigo from being driven backwards wreak havoc with his senses. The table breaks his fall and being this close to his attacker opens up a number of opportunities. He decides on a rather dirty tactic and knees his assailant in the groin. It's armoured, of course, and judging from the pain it'll give him a limp that'll last for days, but the surprised grunt somewhere above him proves that the durasteel plating is ineffective enough to stop the Zabrak dead in his tracks. Theron uses the guy's aimless momentum to his advantage. He rolls off the table and – Zabrak cushioning his fall – tumbles to the floor. It takes him longer than anticipated to free his blaster from where it got sandwiched between him and his attacker but when he does he has no qualms about pulling the trigger.

That is, until he notices how quiet the place has gone. There should be fighting, shouting, the sound of blaster fire.

“Enough!” A crisp voice commands instead. Its owner sounds calm, almost bored, and distinctly Imperial. With a scowl on his face Theron looks up.

The Imp hasn't moved at all. Hands clasped behind a back that's as straight as a ruler he eyes him as one would a particularly annoying insect – if said insect would also hold the promise of valuable intel, a fat bonus and a probably long overdue promotion.

Imperial intelligence, there's no doubt about it. 

Theron has no idea whether the man is an operative, a handler or even one of the elite few Ciphers but one thing's for sure: he's probably the sole reason why he's not currently sprawled on the floor with a blaster bolt to his face. He shifts his gaze over to where Jonas is weakly struggling in the grip of the big Zabrak. He's sporting a split lip and his right eye is rapidly swelling shut. The blood down the front of his shirt doesn't look to be his own. One of the slicers, the one with the ridiculous amount of implants, is holding one side of his face. Blood is seeping from between his gloved fingers where some of the cybernetics have been heavily damaged. Theron would wince in sympathy if he had any to spare. Instead he glares at him as the guy throws a sluggish punch at Jonas's face. Once he's recovered enough to open his eyes Jonas follows suit, but they're clearly at a disadvantage here.

Theron lowers his blaster and slowly, gingerly moves to stand up. He isn't seriously hurt – nothing more than a few cuts and bruises – but even outnumbered and overpowered he's not about to reveal his strengths and weaknesses to the enemy.

“So,” Jonas jokes and licks his bloodied lips. “That could have gone better. Now what?” His words are addressed to no one in particular but they find an eager listener in the human slicer. 

“Now what? We'll send you back to the Republic in pieces. You'll wish you'd never-” And the small vibro-knife in his hand makes Theron tense up for a moment until the Imp steps forward to casually interject himself between Jonas and the wicked-looking blade.

“Now you're going to give us some information.” The man's voice is calm and calculating. He stares down the slicer until he backs off with a Huttese curse on his lips, then he moves to pluck the blaster from Theron's hand. He contemplates it for a moment before he aims it straight at Theron's head.

“Perhaps that way you'll be of some use to us yet.”

It's not the first time Theron's faced the wrong end of a blaster. He isn't worried. If the Imp had intended to pull the trigger he'd already have done so. It's intel he's after, and you can't pull that from implants that are no longer powered by the brain waves of a living person. Unfortunately – and Theron knows this from experience, too – there's a multitude of things you can do to a living person to make them tell you just about anything, blaster or no. Imp agents are infamous for their skill in “intelligence procurement.” A gang of slicers they can deal with, even the mercenaries don't pose much of a problem. The operative is another story entirely. 

And so Theron prepares himself for the seemingly obligatory kick to his knee caps or breaking of his fingers, one bone after the other – until even his implants can't keep up with the pain. Torture. He wouldn't be a very good SIS agent if he hadn't learnt to deal with that, as well.

Across from him Jonas shifts uncomfortably in the tight grip of the Zabrak mercenary.

“Does this kind of thing usually work for you?” he wants to know and he swallows heavily against the arm that's threatening to crush his windpipe. “Because as far as interrogations go this one's pretty stale.”

The Imp's blaster arm lowers almost unnoticeably as he shifts his attention toward his other prisoner and Theron files the information away for later use. Right now there's nothing he can do but watch as Jonas rouses the ire of their would-be torturer. It's ridiculous, really. He's the one with the implants and the Jedi training. Jonas is an expert field agent, Theron doesn't doubt that for one second, but there's no sense in wasting the only advantage they're left with.

The Imp smiles – a bloodless smile that accentuates his thin lips and doesn't touch his eyes.

“What, do you want me to break out the tools of the trade?” he offers and raises one perfectly unremarkable eyebrow. “I apologise, there quite simply wasn't enough time to request an interrogation droid but I'm sure that my associates's enthusiasm will more than make up for my lack of foresight.”

And before Theron can react, can even think about using the fact that the Imp loves the sound of his own sophisticated voice a little too much to his advantage, something – the butt of a blaster? – collides with the back of his head. The world shifts in and out of focus as he topples forward and lands on his hands and knees. He grunts through most the pain and ignores the warm wetness trickling down the back of his neck. Armoured boots step into his limited field of vision. The merc, the one he's kneed in the groin. This should be fun, Theron thinks, before a kick to his ribs steals his breath and all he's left with is to try and roll away from the pain and let his implants do their job.

When, after a few minutes of clumsy roughhousing, they prop him up between the merc and the Rodian he's relieved to see that Jonas is still struggling in the iron grip of the other mercenary. They haven't touched him. Perhaps the Imp wants to observe his reaction, perhaps they're bad at multi-tasking – Theron doesn't much care for a reason. What matters is that they – the greedy band of slicers, the hired muscle and lone Imperial operative – are still underestimating the two of them.

“That's some impressive cybernetics you've there,” the Imp remarks from up close. Theron wagers he could easily break the grip of the Rodian and the Zabrak and cleanly dispose of the man but he won't risk Jonas and anyway, something about all of this doesn't add up. If this is a trap then the Imp could have sprung it with a lot more of that largely unnecessary Imperial efficiency. Where's the backup, the clean-up crew, why are they even still here and not being processed in the nearest Imperial listening post?

The Imp runs a finger along the curve of Theron's implants.

“I wonder what would happen if-”

But Theron twists his head away.

“Then you'd be short one prisoner,” he says but he knows that, strictly speaking, it's not true. Extracting the implants wouldn't be lethal. It would be painful and damage his cerebral cortex, something he's not particularly looking forward to but the Imp doesn't need to know that. In fact, the Imp looks displeased for a second there, worried almost, like someone's threatening to take away his newest toy before he can show it off. Is that it, then? They're to be the man's crowning achievement? Could it be that Imperial Intelligence doesn't even know about their involvement in all of this? Surely they wouldn't leave someone as lacklustre as this guy in charge of interrogating not one but two SIS agents.

It's time to turn this thing around.

“So what are you anyway? A Cipher? An Operative?” He aims lower and is rewarded instantly. “A Fixer?” The Imp tenses visibly, then his nostrils flare in anger and he raises his chin in defiance. Gotcha, Theron thinks, and although SIS is still not entirely sure about the exact infrastructure of Imperial Intelligence he's willing to bet that Fixers aren't that high up on the corporate ladder. It would make sense, too: the Imps send one of their flock to help set up shop and get friendly with a group of criminal slicers – nothing too fancy but successful enough to eventually catch the attention of SIS – but instead of calling for backup their man thinks he can outmanoeuvre both Imperial bureaucracy and his enemies and at the end of the day reap all the benefits for himself. 

Which is why Jonas is currently in the choke-hold of a burly Zabrak instead of that of an Imperial trooper.

Which is probably also why the Imp's reply is a pretty tame “I'm asking the questions here,” and a right hook to his liver. The pain blocks out his vision for a second and it makes him wheeze – he counts at least one cracked rib from the previous rendezvous with a sturdy set of mercenary boots – but it's alright because now he's got the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind and it all depends on how quick Jonas can catch up. So he lets himself go limp, which has the side effect of putting the merc and the slicer holding him off-balance, but not before catching Jonas's attention. There's curiosity in his eyes, then dawning understanding and growing resolve. Jonas and he might have different approaches to their work (and pretty much everything else in life) but they know they can trust each other, even in the face of what's to come. One thing is for sure, it's no going to be pretty.

“Wait!”

Jonas's voice sounds panicked and scared enough that the Imp's next punch is nothing more than a glancing blow to Theron's side. The man turns his back to him then and Theron's mind is racing. The Imp's clothes are simple, they won't protect him from even the most harmless of scuffles. He still carries his blaster, now in his left hand so can throw punches more effectively. There's also the matter of the man's own sidearm still secured in its leg holster. You'd think an operative – Fixer or no – would think a little more strategically.

The Imp in question, high on triumph, takes his time to bask in Jonas' slightly disproportionate impression of fear.

“I'll tell you what you want to know,” he says and Theron thinks that his theatrics verge dangerously close on the melodramatic.

“I'm listening,” the Imp replies, all confident and in charge, and for a moment Theron is taken back by his naivete. Never once has the idiot thought to ask for anything concrete. What are they even supposed to confess to? That this is the worst set-up they've ever walked into?

“There's this holo...” and Jonas's voice becomes so quiet that the Imp in his eagerness leans forward and lowers both his arms. “Wanna know what's on it?”

“Spit it out!”

Now even Theron is intrigued. What in the Force is Jonas talking about?

“The Dark Council.”

What?

“What?” echoes the Imp.

Jonas sighs heavily before making his confession.

“The Dark Council doing the Corellian Cheek-Step.”

It takes the Imp a few seconds to realise that he's been tricked. By the time he's raised his blaster Theron's already exploded into action. Breaking the hold of his two assailants isn't easy but the men are slow and don't expect any resistance from him. When he steps back and forcefully slams into the Rodian he pulls the Zabrak with him. The men react; they want to strike him down but in order to do that they have to let go of him and that gives Theron the opportunity to surge forward. They aren't a direct threat. The Imp is and he's about to abandon his foolish plan and shoot Jonas in the face.

“Hey!” Theron calls out and the Imp's blaster arm twitches to the left as he reacts to the sudden distraction. He turns just enough for Theron to see his finger squeeze the trigger and so his next move is a calculated but desperate one: he hurls himself forward until his chin collides with the man's bony shoulder blades and the pain in his cracked ribs flares up exponentially.

There's the tell-tale wail of blaster fire and Theron smells ozone and burnt flesh. Somebody screams and it isn't Jonas. He and the Imp hit the floor but the man's as slippery as a Gamorrean eel and he's soon pulled off his back by either the Rodian (which is unlikely) or the merc. 

Theron catches glimpses of the second merc as she crumples to the ground. Her tattooed cheek is a gory mess of teeth and blood. She's quite clearly dead. That leaves her partner, two slicers and one very angry Imperial agent. 

And Jonas, who's somehow gained possession of the Imp's blaster – not the stolen one but his own thus far neglected model. Theron grins through the pain even as he's choked from behind (the Rodian's doing, he believes) and a hail of punches rains down on his upper body. Another flash of green and the human slicer collapses to the floor. It's then that Theron's vision starts to grey out due to the lack of oxygen. Or maybe it's the lucky punch to his jaw. He's no longer quite so sure. 

Someone yelps in pain (and it's most definitely not him), someone else practices his best impression of a dying tauntaun (which, let's be honest, probably is him), Jonas blaster-whips the Imp into submission and then shoots the last remaining merc from behind. His body tumbles into Theron whose legs no longer seem to be able to carry his weight so down he goes giving Jonas the perfect line of sight to shoot the Rodian square in the chest.

By now it's grown eerily quiet in the abandoned cantina – that is, if it wasn't for Theron's out-of-control coughing.

“You okay?” asks a familiar deep voice. When the coughing finally subsides and he manages to look up Jonas is kneeling in front of him between the fallen bodies of one of the mercs and the unmoving Imp. 

“Dead?” Theron asks and nods toward the man – unremarkable even as a corpse.

“Bad fall, I guess.” He shrugs and then winces. The split lip and the black eye aren't the only things he's left with but at least he isn't seriously injured.

“The Corellian Cheek-Step?” Theron asks as Jonas helps him to his feet. “Now that's an image I won't be able to unthink ever.”

“Hey,” and while Jonas props him up he casually checks him for injuries. “It was that or the Emperor in frilly underthings.”

“Right.” Theron chuckles despite himself. “Moving on.”

He crosses and uncrosses (the pain of his cracked ribs will bother him for weeks to come, he just knows it) his arms and waits as Jonas frisks the bodies of their unsuccessful assailants for clues. Most of what he finds isn't of any interest to them: credit chips (of the Imperial variant), a slicer spike, a generous helping of glitterstim. The Imp, however, is carrying an encrypted datapad and a portable holoprojector.

“You up for some overtime?” A smile is tugging at Jonas's lips.

“Do you really need to ask?” And already another plan is forming in Theron's mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonas smiles and it opens the cut on his lip, which is okay, really. If that's what it takes to keep Theron Shan from self-destructing one bruise at a time he'll gladly join in on the self-flagellation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be the smut, with some much-needed comfort and fluff on the side. Who knew I had it in me?

It's late when they reach their safehouse which isn't more than a few private rooms in the back of a small speeder repair shop. There's a refresher and beds and a state of the art computer terminal. It's the terminal to which Theron is instantly drawn. Since they've left the bustle and the larger-than-life holosigns of the Red Light Sector behind he's used every free minute to slice into the Imp's datapad via his implants. Already he's made some progress, Jonas knows even though he himself has been busy directing a SIS clean-up crew to discreetly sweep the cantina. Until they know what's on that datapad and until they're sure that the dead Imp truly failed to report to his superiors they've agreed that it's business as usual so as not to draw attention to themselves. While the mercenaries don't pose a problem – after all they're just hired muscle – two slicers seem a bit on the small side for a criminal op the size they were expecting. That leaves the Imp. Chances are that with the info on his datapad they can bust a significant part of Imperial Intelligence here on Nar Shaddaa – an achievement that would tip the balance in the Republic's favour for months, perhaps even years to come.

What's a little discomfort, a little pain in exchange for resounding success?

But Jonas is also aware of how Theron favours his left side, of the dried blood in his hair and the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. Something needs to be done. 

“Make any headway yet?” Jonas asks as he peels out of his jacket. There's speckles of blood on its lapels and rolling his shoulders reawakens the dull ache in his collarbone from where the big Zabrak has managed to grab him. All in all, it's been quite a day. 

Theron doesn't even notice. He's too engrossed in his work, following paragraphs of numbers on the computer screen and undoubtedly comparing that to whatever info his implants are running by him at the same time. 

“Headway? Sure,” he replies but he sounds frustrated and tired and there's a raspy quality to his voice. “But this guy recorded everything, from his meal times to his spendings. Five credits for a glass of muja fruit juice. I mean, who does that?”

“Yeah, that seems a tad overpriced.”

The corners of Theron's mouth don't even so much as twitch.

“You know what I mean. This much information could take days to sift through.”

Jonas shrugs, then immediately regrets it as the pain flares up again.

“So maybe you– we should take a break.”

“There's no time for that.”

At a press of a button more numbers scroll across the screen. Jonas tries to make sense of them but finds that he doesn't have the energy to keep at it for more than just a few seconds. Theron doesn't either judging by the downward twist of his mouth and the way he's narrowed his eyes as if it takes effort just to keep them focussed on the task at hand.

Alright, so maybe Jonas needs to approach this differently. 

“But I suppose there's time enough for you to enjoy the aftermath of some well-placed punches.”

“I've had worse.”

“Yeah, and apparently you didn't learn from any of it.”

Theron remains unconvinced, that much is clear by his unwillingness to even look him in the eye, but the numbers on the computer terminal stop scrolling and Jonas knows that he has him now.

“Let me see,” he offers, softly, and he's tempted to run his fingers over the darkening bruise on Theron's jaw.

“Jonas...” Theron exhales, then shakes his head. There's angry red marks on his throat that have already begun to darken into the purple-green shadow of long Rodian fingers. Jonas is really glad that he shot the bastard point-blank in the chest.

“I'm pretty sure that even you in your right mind would agree that working yourself to the bone isn't the way to go about this. You might miss stuff. Important stuff.”

The chair creaks as Theron turns towards him.

“So what do you suggest we do?” he asks and he seems unsure, like taking a break doesn't even cross his mind.

Jonas smiles and it opens the cut on his lip, which is okay, really. If that's what it takes to keep Theron Shan from self-destructing one bruise at a time he'll gladly join in on the self-flagellation.

“Get some rest, spend some quality time in the 'fresher, lick our wounds? Not necessarily in that order.” He shrugs. “Not necessarily together, either, though I wouldn't mind the company.”

Theron just stares, then – at the press of a few buttons – the terminal's lights dim as it enters standby mode.

“Five standard hours. Not a minute more.”

The refresher comes with sonics only but Jonas doesn't mind the lack of water. Ridding himself of the blood and grime and sweat of the past few hours feels heavenly. There's an angry knot on the inner side of one collarbone but another deliberate roll of his shoulders confirms that it isn't broken. And anyway, his black eye looks far more impressive in the small mirror above the sink than any of his other, more minor cuts and scrapes.

There's nothing minor about any of Theron's injuries but that could just be his overprotective mind playing tricks on him. In the sterile light of the 'fresher Theron's skin looks paler than usual and when it's his turn to use the sonic it provides Jonas with a prime view of all of his newly acquired bruises.

So when he leaves the 'fresher it's with a towel slung around his hips and an unopened medkit in one hand.

“Come over here,” he calls as he sits down on the bed that's farthest from the computer terminal (just to be sure, of course). 

Theron, the strands of his hair no longer quite so accurately pointing upward, sticks his head out of the refresher unit.

“What?” he asks but he no longer seems quite so hell-bent on upholding his workaholic principles. Without his trademark red jacket, or even the inconspicuous business clothes they've been wearing for the past couple of days, he looks different. It's a side of him not many people are allowed to see – but not because it makes him vulnerable. There's many things Theron Shan might be but vulnerable isn't one of them, this much Jonas knows from first-hand experience. 

But that doesn't mean he can't look out for him once in a while.

“Kolto pads. You'll thank me later.”

And when Theron sits down next to him Jonas unwraps one of the watery patches and begins to gently dab it on Theron's bruised jaw. He knows it's more of a temporary solution. What they need is a few days off and a kolto tank but at least the pads serve as a potent disinfectant and pain killer.

“Anything more serious than that you want to tell me about?”

“Uh… no?”

Funny how one of SIS's finest is such a bad liar.

Jonas leans in closer and nods towards where he knows Theron's thick hair is hiding yet another battle souvenir. He waits for him to incline his head, then runs a hand through the dark brown strands, tips of his fingers barely brushing his scalp so he won't cause more harm than good. A sharp intake of breath confirms Jonas's suspicions. There's a small cut marring the crown of Theron's head. It's nothing serious and the bleeding has long since stopped. Better to leave the wound alone and let Theron's implants deal with the pain.

Besides, there's plenty still left for him to do. Jonas unwraps another patch to treat the various bruises on Theron's stomach and back before their ongoing silence gets the better of him.

“Want me to go on? Below the towel, perhaps?”

Theron stifles a laugh and it's easy to see by the way he holds himself that he's not completely free of pain yet. A couple of bruised ribs probably – injuries that a simple medkit won't be able to soothe. 

“Believe me, those thugs weren't as thorough,” he replies, then he plugs the small medkit from out of Jonas's lap. “Your turn.”

And soon after that Jonas finds himself sitting so close to Theron that he can feel the heat radiating off the other man's body as he uses the last kolto patch to treat the cut on his lips.

“This isn't the kind of foreplay I had in mind,” Jonas casually remarks, his words muffled by the gooey fabric pressed against his mouth – he must admit, however, that the patch that now covers his black eye feels pretty amazing. 

“As far as foreplay goes this is pretty bad,” Theron agrees. “For one that provisional eye patch of yours is somewhat distracting.”

Jonas smiles and he feels fingertips against the curve of his lower lip.

“Was that a joke?”

“Must be the kolto talking,” Theron replies, his voice softer than it was before. 

“It wasn't that good of a joke,” Jonas teases.

“I'm still learning the ropes.”

He lowers his hand, the one that's holding the kolto patch, and here they are: covered in shiny bruises that smell faintly medicinal, with five standard hours to waste.

Sleeping is overrated anyway.

“I'm absolutely willing to help you out there. For the right kind of compensation.”

“Really? What do you have in mind?” and he appears to be just the right kind of interested so Jonas decides to gap the small distance between them and lets his wet lips brush against Theron's smile. He tastes kolto, the sweet, coppery tang of his own blood and remnants of the whisky they've had at the cantina.

He's about to give himself over fully when Theron withdraws.

“I can't do this,” he says. 

“Oh,” replies Jonas.

“I can't do this with that patch on your eye,” and he rubs his cheek and wipes away sticky droplets of kolto.

This is going to be interesting, Jonas thinks to himself as he peels off the patch, wipes wet hands on soft sheets before curling his fingers around the back of Theron's neck to gently pull him back into the kiss.

They've got to be careful. The bruises they've accumulated don't make for a very sensuous experience. Theron hisses softly as he leans into Jonas's embrace and Jonas's lip tingles semi-painfully when their kiss deepens. Neither of it compares to the sensation of being close to one another. Soon the medkit slides off the bed and onto the panelled floor as Theron pushes him back against the covers, and even though one of his eyes is still half swollen shut Jonas takes a moment to look at Theron – really look at him. This up close the contours of his face melt into indistinct shapes and colours. What stands out are his implants: raised, blueish veins a tell-tale sign of where the cybernetics interface with his body. Two pinpoint, neon lights are aglow even now as a myriad of information runs by Theron's eye implant. Sometimes Jonas wonders what it feels like, seeing the world with this much clarity. Other times he's really not sure how Theron manages to even put a shirt on without getting caught on a protruding piece of sophisticated sensor equipment. 

Implants are a pretty common sight in the galaxy. To most people they're a life saver. They can restore eyesight and hearing and missing limbs – none of which applies to Theron. Not for the first time Jonas wonders why he got his cybernetics. He's known him for years now – and never without them. Whether there is something missing from his life, or something he thinks he has to make up for, Jonas doesn't know. He's also quite sure that it isn't the implants that turn Theron into such a brilliant spy. Sure, they give him an edge but so does good intel or a particularly reliable asset.

Jonas runs one finger along the curved edge of his temporal implant. It's warm to the touch, an extension of Theron's body rather than a foreign object. He wonders idly if Theron can actually feel the tip of his finger there and what the implant makes of him – species, biometrics, his whole blasted SIS file, Theron can probably project all kinds of info right onto his enhanced iris. He lets his eyes drift close instead as he leans over him, arms propped up on both sides of Jonas's head. 

He pulls Theron closer then and he's careful not to aggravate his ribs any further. They should probably switch places but Jonas can't bring himself to let go, even if it's just for a moment. He – they both – need this, and it isn't about the tension or the release or any kind of overly romantic entanglement. There's nothing casual about this, either, although strictly speaking they're not a couple, never have been and probably never will be. They're comfort, the kind only someone with the same kind of outlook on life can offer. Working for the SIS, there's flings and maybe there's spouses, but a fellow agent – one who's seen what's at stake for the Republic and that sometimes not even the difficult choices guarantee a happy ending – understands best what it feels like at the end of the day: living as a spy, having a codename, being nothing more than a well-honed instrument of sabotage and destruction.

Sometimes, Jonas fears, Theron lets the weight of the galaxy get to him. He's, well, not exactly a cynic but even if he were he'd not be entirely wrong – which is why Jonas has made it his turbulent life's philosophy to take his comforts where he can. Once in a while he convinces Theron to do the same. And so he ducks out of Theron's loose embrace and rolls on top of him. 

He feels Theron squirm against him and for a moment there he can see the muscles in his jaw grow tight with discomfort as he adjusts to their change of position. Jonas sits back and, their towels now askew, skin on overheated skin as he straddles his hips, takes a few seconds to contemplate the dark bruise high up on Theron's chest – the one that's shaped like the tip of an armoured boot.

“I'm not made of Upari crystals, you know?” Theron comments dryly when he notices his hesitation.

“Just...” and a smile tugs at the corners of Jonas's mouth as he makes up his mind, “waiting for you to catch up.”

“Oh, now you're on, Balkar!” comes the prompt reply and in that moment Jonas knows that his worries – while they may have not been completely unfounded – have at least been sufficiently acknowledged.

Theron bucks his hips then and his hands seek out Jonas's waist, where the white, thin fabric of the towel has loosened and uncovers sun-kissed skin and the curve of muscle. He lets the tips of his fingers travel inward and down the trail of fine hair low on Jonas's stomach until they dip even lower and the towel falls away.

This is when Theron hesitates a second time. His hands come to rest on Jonas's thighs, fingers absent-mindedly massaging the soft skin there. But when he raises an eyebrow, the one that's framed by his cybernetics, Jonas knows he's onto something and so he relaxes, acutely aware of how the over-sensitive head of his half-erect cock is rubbing against Theron's belly.

“Why Jonas, I didn't think you cared.”

Jonas's answer falls somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

“That's the worst one yet, Shan.”

Theron lets his gaze drift lower momentarily.

“Hey, but it worked, right?”

Jonas leans closer, close enough to kiss.

“You're lucky you're so cute,” he says and goes for where the hollow of one collarbone meets the vulnerable skin of Theron's neck. Lips and tongue and a hint of teeth carefully make their way upward, a smile slowing things down somewhat as he feels Theron strain against his touch.

“Cute, huh? That's not really the phrase I would be going for,” he replies, his voice a little shaky and decidedly distracted.

“Too bad,” Jonas whispers into his ear before he starts nibbling on the earlobe there.

There's a sharp intake of breath, then one of Theron's hands snakes between their bodies. Warm fingers wrap around his cock and start up a drawn-out, teasing rhythm that's difficult to ignore.

Caught up in the moment Jonas rolls his hips. The sudden friction reminds him that Theron's still wearing his towel so he shifts his weight and starts tugging at it impatiently. It takes their combined effort and some unforeseen re-positioning but after a few frustrating seconds the offending material lands balled up on the floor a few feet away from the bed.

And, now kneeling between Theron's legs, it takes Jonas an almost embarrassingly long time to get back into the heat of things because even in the artificial glow of the light nodes overhead Theron's skin looks warm and enticing, all bronze hues and soft shadows. He ignores the unvoiced question in Theron's eyes and lets his hands explore the muscular curve of his thighs, right up to where they meet his hips and the rise and fall of his toned stomach. He kisses the skin beneath his bellybutton and his tongue paints a wet trail downward until his lips meet where one hand has already begun stroking Theron's cock.

Theron's reaction is immediate, a low groan escapes the back of his throat as he arches his back for him and runs restless fingers through his hair. Jonas doesn't mind the soft tugging at his scalp. He relishes in it just as he relishes in the taste of him, the weight of him on his tongue, against the roof of his mouth.

He teases one hardening nipple, which does interesting things to Theron's voice, and he cups his balls, firm beneath his touch and tightening ever so slightly as Theron gets closer to release. His point of no return is easy enough to anticipate. Theron's not all that vocal but the way he squirms under his touch as his stomach muscles tense gives Jonas enough time to palm the base of his cock and start licking a little slower, a little deeper. He's not entirely opposed to the idea of sloppy blowjobs but this time they really can't afford to drag things out. So, when Theron's comes, he swallows until both the erratic upward movement of Theron's hips and his drawn-out moans have waned in their intensity. Jonas, too, grows still. He gives the over-sensitive head of Theron's cock one last appreciative lick before he looks up, lips still reddened and wet.

Theron's eyes – pupils so wide that they've temporarily darkened the bright amber of his irises – are half-closed, his breathing is only slowly returning to a more regular pace, and Jonas smirks to himself. Now this is something he could get used to.

Theron obviously agrees. His hands are framing Jonas's face as he pulls him into a long and lazy kiss.

“You know we're not done yet, right?” he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft and heavy with emotion as he lets his damp forehead rest against that of Jonas.

“Is that so?” 

Jonas's deep voice is a murmur against the cupid's bow of Theron's lips. He's acutely aware of where their bodies touch – of the way Theron's legs are hooked behind his own drawing him into the most intimate of embraces, of his own cock rubbing against the heat of Theron's groin.

It is rather unfortunate that they have neither the means nor the time to take this any further. A good spy, so they say, always comes prepared but somewhat to Jonas's dismay they didn't feature any lube into the mission briefing – something to consider for next time.

He won't bother swallowing the moan that comes unbidden to his lips and before he can tell Theron what it is he wants the other man's tongue finds a particularly sensitive spot on one side of his neck: there, where he can feel his own pulse beating against the soft graze of teeth. Wandering hands dig into the swell of his arse and the friction of their bodies moving against each other is almost too much to bear. Theron's thumb seeks out a bead of precome, and he wraps slick fingers around his length. His strokes are rhythmic and fast, and soon Jonas finds himself thrusting into his hand. 

He bites his lip and regrets it immediately. The kolto might have dulled the pain but it doesn't take much to remind him. He needs another way to stifle his moans so he buries his face in Theron's hair as the other man lets his tongue trail from the hollow of his neck down to his chest.

They keep up this pace until Jonas feels the waves of pleasure draw to a close somewhere low in his stomach. When he comes he does so loudly, his body helpless as Theron's hand continues to stroke him until his conscious thoughts have regained their meaning.

In the afterglow of their shared intimacy there's a heat between them that's not entirely uncomfortable. They're sweaty and boneless, their breathing out of tune, and Jonas knows from experience this post-coital state of bliss won't last for long. He rolls off Theron, naked skin shivering on the cool synthetic sheets from the sudden loss of extra body warmth.

“Sorry for the mess,” he apologises and vaguely gestures towards where droplets of his cum have pooled on Theron's chest. The mattress shifts slightly as Theron shrugs.

“Can't be helped.”

And they lie in silence for a while until first Theron and then Jonas make use of the 'fresher once more. 

By then Jonas can hardly keep his eyes open, and as he sinks back onto the bed he's infinitely grateful for the five hours of blessed rest he's wrestled from Theron and his overzealous work ethic.

“Three hours, 56 minutes,” comes the prompt reply after he's made the mistake of sharing the good news with him.

“You're a terrible person.”

But by then Jonas has already half nodded off, body instinctively turned towards the man lying right next to him, so close that his even breathing follows him into the depths of dreamless sleep.

When he wakes the other half of the bed is empty, the tangled sheets right next to him are cold. Jonas isn't worried. He knows exactly what's going on – expected as much, really, even when talking Theron into taking a break with him last night. He turns his head and there he is, by the computer terminal, typing something into his datapad as lines of code too small to read from across the room scroll by on the terminal's screen. He's no longer dressed for their mission. Jonas takes this as a good sign. In his long-sleeved shirt and simple khakis he looks unassuming, like a slicer perhaps or a third-rate smuggler. The only thing that stands out about his outfit is the red jacket currently draped over the back of his chair. Theron's sentimental about it but he's never told him why. Jonas doesn't take him for the kind to believe in lucky charms, and the red leatheris with the black, padded shoulders trimmed in white isn't exactly galactic couture. Still, Jonas won't complain. For one it's grown to be a familiar sight. It means that while he was busy counting tauntauns in his sleep Theron has made some progress.

“You could have let me help, you know?”

And a glance at the chrono proves that it's been way more than just five standard hours.

“No need. Sifting through the data is a one-man job.”

One to which Theron due to his implants is uniquely suited so Jonas bites his tongue and keeps his thoughts to himself. This is a two-men mission, yes, but the mission perimeters have changed and above all else, Jonas knows, Theron is used to working alone.

“So, what's the status on our deceased Imperial friend?” Jonas asks as he manoeuvres into a fashionable blue pair of Corellian trousers and a fitted, high-collared shirt.

“It seems that our friend” – and Theron unconsciously rubs the bruise on his jaw – “has left us with a gift.”

“Not another list on overpriced drinking habits, I hope?”

But when Jonas joins him at the terminal Theron calls up a map. Light blue on black, it shows detailed schematics of several of Nar Shaddaa's busiest sectors. Jonas recognises the Red Light sector and the Promenade but the points of interest marked in glowing white mean little to him. Unless…

“Is that what I think it is?”

Jonas can't keep the growing excitement out of his voice.

Theron just nods, his face a mask of grim satisfaction.

“Turns out we ran into the Empire's most incompetent spy.”

Jonas laughs but his mind is racing and his eyes are glued to the screen. He counts three markers on this map alone.

“How many?”

“Five that I know of but I'm going over the data again to make sure.”

“Theron, that's...”, but Jonas is at a loss for words. Their original mission is so routine it hurts: find the slicers, take out the slicers, prove any potential tie to Imperial Intelligence. They've done all that and have the bruises to show for it. This… this is something else entirely.

“We've got to act fast of course and we don't have enough people to attack all at once.”

Jonas nods. He knows the numbers, and he also knows that sending in droids or using bombs is out of the question. They can't risk civilian lives. Collateral damage isn't part of their modus operandi.

“So we take out... what? Three at most?”

“Any more than that and we risk mission failure. Our overenthusiastic Imperial friend didn't list the exact number of personnel.”

Which complicates matters. An operation like that needs time to plan, and the more people know about it the bigger the risk of a leak.

“Any word on double agents?” Jonas asks.

“No, and that worries me. We've got to strike fast.”

“On it.”

Jonas leaves Theron to his datapad and grabs the portable holoprojector from the table. He knows they've got their work cut out for them. You can't storm an Imperial listening post just like that – much less three of them all at the same time. They need to be doing this right, choose the right kind of targets and the right kind of people. If all goes according to plan they're due to return to Coruscant headquarters with quite a few presents in tow.

A few days later, when they're all comfortably seated in the Director's office and sharing some of that Corellian brandy the man has so thoughtfully offered Jonas still can't quite believe their good luck.

“Right now our holding cells are filled with more Imps than our interrogators can process,” the Director says. “You did the Republic a great service, gentlemen.”

“I feel like half of the credit belongs to our obsessively-thorough friend,” Theron argues.

“Then again, he did punch you in the face,” Jonas points out.

“Yeah, there was that.”

The bruises and cuts on their faces are only slowly fading and they've both refused time in a kolto tank. There's too much still left to be done. Some of the slicers are still at large and the remaining Imperial listening posts haven't been fully cleared, either. Jonas for his part wants to see this through, even if it means setting up shop on Nar Shaddaa for the unforeseeable future. 

Theron, of course, will never agree to any of that. He's a field agent through and through and better suited to saving the galaxy one against-all-odds mission at a time. He's pretty sure the Director knows it, too. After all, it's no big secret that Theron is one of his best and brightest. The occasional routine mission won't dull his senses but ultimately he belongs in enemy territory with only his wits for backup. Jonas can't help but wonder what's made him this way. 

“You two work well together. Perhaps I should team you up more often,” muses the Director after they've received their almost obligatory medal (and a decent amount of credits transferred directly onto their personal accounts).

The answer is a somewhat uncomfortable silence. Jonas doesn't take it too personally. He knows better than that.

“So, what's next for the Republic's finest?” he asks as Theron and he say their goodbyes not long after leaving the Director to the rest of his brandy.

“I'll let you know once I meet them.”

Theron isn't one for fond farewells – nor for self-praise, either. Jonas smirks at him, a crooked smile that Theron returns warmly. And that's it for their stint on Nar Shaddaa, he thinks. Lucky for them, there's plenty of cantinas still left uncharted.


End file.
